Come Back To Me

It’s been a tough few months in the Meat Clinic, the rats escaped the display shelf and came back to life, ran up the walls and through our hair like whimpering Bucks rain in July. As the bailiffs arrived in their rattling vans, greedy hands pulling cleavers and axes from the storeroom, the rain turned to tears. It had come to this: THERE WAS NO FUTURE ANYMORE.

But striding through the gloom like Skeletor on a mission came the BRADY CONSORTIUM, cash spilling from their skirts like pubic hair. We were back in the game, 11 new signings in Brill Hill and the budget’s been done. Plasma screens showing chicken thighs, a new Formica worksurface and a sink that dissolves bone like castor sugar.

Hello, hello, it’s nice to be back. If someone sees my archive then pop it in the post or cover it in petrol and sacrifice it to Barry Sheene.

Catching up with the Wycombe news has not been easy, I recognise no-one anymore, the team is now like that month in 1992 when Championship Manager enthralled and every player in it had randomly generated names. Williams, Woodman, Sutton, Duncan. They could be the Royal Fusiliers or four draftpaks on a mission to assault. I don’t know what they look like (I imagine two legs, two arms and a middle figure aimed at the Valley End) and I don’t really care. They are like greyhounds in their predictable jackets from trap one to trap eight. They’ll pull on the blue shirt and they’ll do a job and I’ll be pleased or dismayed.

When they write the histories it will be found that the last player I idolised was Kevin Betsy but he was driven out of Bucks by hatred and I can’t recover from that. Somewhere Rodney King is still being beaten around the head and I’ve run out of paracetemol.

So to the new men I say this: I don’t want to know anything about you, just do the job you are paid to do. I prefer it when Wycombe score more goals than the opposition. It’s unshakeable.

10.08.2007. 13:10

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